"The lead," Malone said aloud, "is farther down. Not in the skull."
The gnomes paid him no attention. He shut his eyes and tried to relax. The gnomes went right ahead with their work, and microscopic regiments of Eagle Scouts began marching steadily along his nerves.
There were people, Malone had always understood, who bounced out of their beds and greeted each new day with a smile. It didn't sound possible, but then again there were some pretty strange people. The head of that counterfeiting ring, for instance: where had he got the idea of picking an alias like André Gide?
Clutching at his whirling thoughts, Malone opened his eyes, winced, and began to get dressed. At least, he thought, it was going to be a peaceful day.
It was at this second that his private intercom buzzed.
Malone winced again. "To hell with you," he called at the thing, but the buzz went on, ignoring the code shut-off. That meant, he knew, an emergency call, maybe from his Chief of Section. Maybe even from higher up.
"I'm not even late for work yet," he complained. "I will be, but I'm not yet. What are they screaming about?"
There was, of course, only one way to find out. He shuffled painfully across the room, flipped the switch and said:
"Malone here." Vaguely, he wondered if it were true. He certainly didn't feel as if he were here. Or there. Or anywhere at all, in fact.
A familiar voice came tinnily out of the receiver. "Malone, get down here right away!"